Stay With Me
by SpecialAgentZiva
Summary: "Oh God, no, no, no, Sherlock, please…" John is actually crying now. For a moment, he actually feels the urge to burst into tears himself, but Sherlock Holmes has more pride than that. He allows his eyes to close slowly and his grip loosens...
1. Goodbye

**A/N: Warning, warning. This isn't the happiest fic in the world. But please enjoy anyway. I don't own Sherlock.**

His heart beats fast, racing double-time, and he is powerless to stop what is destined to happen. He tenses, and he leaps forward, perfectly in time with the speeding metal. He feels the bite as it rips through his skin, the stinging kiss of bullet through flesh, and he falls. He never planned to fall, of course. Falling isn't dramatic enough for him. In his mind, he's always imagined himself dying in an epic explosion or a hail of bullets. He never expected that he would die protecting someone he loved.

Had it come to that, or was he just delusional? Did he really admit that, beneath the mask, beneath the seemingly bullet-proof casing that encircled his heart, there was a part of him that actually cared? Somehow, he regretted not realizing this earlier. After all, it might have helped him. Maybe they'd never have gotten into this situation after all.

He lays on the ground, feeling the blood as it spills from his chest. He is sure that it's missed any major organ, but he will bleed out and he knows it. He can't help but frown in disdain at the dark red that undoubtedly is staining his favourite jacket. Even in his last moments, he will allow himself to be vain. Quietly vain, but nevertheless so.

"Sherlock! Stay with me!" A scream pulls him out of his thoughts and his eyes fly wide open. He stares up at the person who yelled. Inexplicably, he begins to smile, just a little bit. This only seems to frighten his partner in crime (partner in justice? he wonders this briefly) more and the man is down on the ground in seconds. He is a bit shocked to see John's favourite jumper ripped off and pressed against his wound. Funny, this wasn't exactly what he expected to see in his dying moments. He switches his gaze to John's face.

"Stay with me, I've called an ambulance," John is pleading with him now. Actually pleading. He can't really believe it, because this is nothing like the soldier and doctor he knows. He frowns a tiny bit, raising a pale hand to grip his friend's arm. The grip is not strong - he can't hold on tightly - but it will suffice. His eyelids are beginning to feel heavy and he lets them slide a fraction of an inch. John's shocked eyes raise to his instead of his wound and he is crying out, "No, no, no. Don't do this, Sherlock. Don't do this. Say something, stay with me. But don't do this. You can't…"

"John," he is actually surprised at how raspy his own voice is. He shouldn't be. After all, he's just been shot, just taken a bullet for the man begging him to stay alive. He opens his mouth to say more but cannot find the strength. Instead, he allows his eyes to close slowly and his grip loosens.

"Oh God, no, no, no, Sherlock, please…" John is actually crying now. He can't see it because his eyes are closed, but he can feel the tears dripping on his face. He can just imagine the interesting reds and pinks they might make when mixed with his blood. For a moment, he actually feels the urge to burst into tears himself, but Sherlock Holmes has more pride than that. He may be dying, may be letting the world slip away, may be leaving everyone and everything John had forced him to care for (damn him) behind, but he couldn't let go of who he was, not now.

So he lay in the darkened alley, back pressed against the pavement, eyes closed. His face is set but he is slipping away, unable to hold on the the surface. And just as the darkness reaches out, beckoning him towards it, he manages to whisper,

"_Good bye_."

**A/N: Note, this is a one-shot but I may consider making it a two-shot showing John's reaction to all this. We shall see. Anyway, reviews are loved, and thanks to all who read this.**


	2. He's Really Gone

**A/N: I have to thank absolutely everyone who has read and reviewed this. Your comments were all appreciated. :) And I did add a second chapter to this after all. Please enjoy. I don't own Sherlock.**

Salty tears fall down his face, cutting a trail through the dirt still clinging to his skin. They fall haphazardly and he doesn't even move to wipe them away. And why should he? Just an hour ago, he'd lost all that he'd built since returning from Afghanistan. Though he knows he shouldn't, he feels guilty, and he cannot push the guilt away. After all, the bullet had not been meant for Sherlock.

The bullet had been meant for him. He knows, if he could rewind time, he wouldn't have let Sherlock jump. He would've reacted sooner and dropped them both to the ground, or even taken the bullet for himself. He's done it before, hasn't he? And he survived the last time. Surely if he'd taken the bullet, he could have survived, and they would both still be here. But he knows he is wishing for the impossible.

No matter how hard he tries, he cannot shake the guilt gnawing at the back of his mind. He has sat against the too-clean wall of the hospital waiting room for nearly an hour, refusing to get up for fear that he'll be confronted by all that's left of Sherlock. He knows there's no point being here. Sherlock was pronounced dead at the scene. But he feels there should be someone grieving for the man, and who would be better than himself?

"Good bye," he whispers to himself for the thousandth time. He doesn't know why he keeps repeating the words - they only force the tears to rain down harder. He thinks that he should've run out of tears by now, but there will never be enough tears for the death of Sherlock Holmes. He knows that, in the years to come, there will be nothing more than tears and pain accompanied with the memories of the man.

After all, he expected to live in 221B with Sherlock for more than a year. He expected to be chasing down criminals and wading through odd experiments in the kitchen for a long time to come. He didn't think that the last case they'd taken would truly be the last. It hadn't been much of a puzzle, anyway. Not for Sherlock.

"John, you need to get up," a voice floats down to him but he ignores it. He shuts his eyes tight, willing it away, but the voice doesn't seem to want to leave. "You need to get home. Sherlock… Sherlock wouldn't want you to be crying over him like this."

This sparks fury in him. Yes, he's been telling patients this for years, but he never expected to be on the receiving end of the supposedly comforting comments. But he opens his eyes anyway and looks up, surprised to see the somber-looking face of the Detective Inspector. He gulps back a sob and instead whispers, "He's gone. He's really gone."

"I know," Lestrade gives him an apologetic smile, reaching his hand down for John to take. He does not take it, instead, he puts his hands behind his back in a very child-like manner. It reminds him of Sherlock and the countless, childish arguments they'd gotten into. This time, he can't stop himself sobbing. He feels weak, far weaker than he ever has. Even when his best friend in Afghanistan died, he didn't cry like this. He didn't cry and carry on.

But there was a difference, wasn't there? Sherlock wasn't part of that war, he was part of his own. And John was supposed to protect him. He'd loved his best friend as best friends loved one another, but even that brotherly love didn't come near what he'd felt for Sherlock. When it came to the consulting detective, things had always been different. Had it been any other man, he wouldn't have put up with the irritating assaults on the violin late at night, possibly lethal experiments in the kitchen, last-minute summons to chase criminals down dark alleys, and constant need for care when he couldn't even see that he needed it.

Yes, Sherlock truly was a special case. And now he was gone, gone like the man they'd been tracking. The only thing left of him, besides the pale body and the blood staining John's favourite jumper, was the impact he'd left on those around him. Even 221 B wouldn't be the same. And damn him, damn him for making John care like this. Damn him for making him break down and cry, and damn him for dying. It wasn't fair of him, not at all. Then again, fair had never been part of Sherlock's vocabulary.

"John, come on, you need to get home," the voice told him again. This time he forces himself to shake his head. He twists his dreary face into a wry smile, much like he remembers Sherlock doing so often, and simply whispers,

"_Good bye_."


	3. A True Hero

**A/N: Well, somehow this evolved into a three-shot. I do actually have a fourth chapter for this but I'm not sure I should bother with it. But thanks to all who've read, reviewed, and favorited. :) I don't own Sherlock.**

"_Sherlock Holmes_

_A true hero in the mind of others,_

_A puzzle in his own right._

_Rest in peace, the world will miss you._"

For the first time in months, he allows small tears to slip down his face as he reads these words. He hasn't truly moved on, not yet, and he doubts that he ever will. But he has forced himself to stay away from the white marble stone that marks Sherlock's resting place. He couldn't bare to be near to it, not when he was at his weakest and burst into tears at mere memories of the dead man. But today was a special day.

It marked the one year anniversary of the day Sherlock had died and… and Sherlock's birthday. He still felt guilty for this. They shouldn't have even been out chasing criminals on that day, but Sherlock had insisted, telling him that it was what he'd wanted for this birthday. Fine, he'd complied. And it had led them here: Sherlock to his death, and John to the depths of despair.

Clutched in John's hands are a variety of items. He's not even sure why he's brought them. Sherlock would've just laughed, informing him that he would have no need for material possessions in death, but it did make John feel a tiny bit better. Amongst the assortment of items, there is a letter and a small, yellow rose. He had almost brought Sherlock's favourite scarf as well but found himself unable to part with it. The scarf was one of the few things he'd chosen to keep as a reminder of his friend's death.

"Sherlock," he whispered, sitting down by the stone. He brushed his fingers over the dew-ladened grass. "I'm sorry, I really am. And I-I know you wouldn't want me crying and carrying on like I am, but I can't help it. I still can't believe you died. I honestly woke up, just this morning, ready to wish you a happy birthday-" he breaks off with a quiet sob "-and then I realized you wouldn't be here.

"221B isn't the same, you know. Not since you died. I've considered moving, and I'm sorry for that, but everywhere I look I can see your face. I don't know why this has hit me so much. Maybe because of who you were. Your own kind of person, and you made me care for you. You didn't even realize it, but you did. And I still have to say, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I really am."

More tears are falling down his face now. He can't find the words to say the rest of what he wants to. Instead, he lifts his fingers to brush over the gold-plated words on the headstone. He almost smiles at the words inscribed on it. The words there were partially his own, partially Mycroft's. And, though they both knew quite well that Sherlock did not believe in heros, it was so easily agreed that he deserved the title of one.

"I'm always going to miss you, you know that?" he whispers through the tears, fingers still clumsily tracing the letters. He puts down the items in his other hand, all except the letter. With a moment's hesitation, he withdraws his fingers from the headstone and begins to read the letter.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry for all this. I know I've apologized a thousand times, but I wish it was me who'd taken the bullet. You would've coped. You wouldn't have cried like I am, would you? And-and I know, they tell me I shouldn't feel guilty, that you wouldn't have wanted me to. But I can't help it. And so, my friend, I have one last thing to say."

He gulps back a fresh sob and forces his hands to stay steady.

"_Good bye_."

**A/N ^^ anyone sense a pattern here? ;)**


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